In from the cold
by ValykirieRevolution
Summary: Post-Winter Soldier: The Soldier tries to regain his old memories as Bucky Barnes. Meanwhile Sam and Steve go on a camping trip.


**Disclaimer: I don't own or have any rights to these characters; they are owned by Marvel, Stan Lee, and whoever else is affiliated with them. I'm just borrowing them. Don't worry, I'll put em' back on the shelf when I'm done.**

**Warnings: Spoilers for Winter Solider. Bucky-Whump, PTSD, Memory-manipulation, slight-breakdown**

**AN: Just saw the sequel and this happened.**

In from the cold:

He didn't mind the cold. The weather of the great Russian expanse. Wind gusted through his hair, snow clinging to his skin. It was refreshing after…that other place he was at. He couldn't recall, but the brisk air whisked away any chance at remembering. He blinked and shouldered his duffle bag. He huffed at the weight. Not that it was heavy, but he had to remember that he was no longer in Russia.

No, no he wasn't. He squinted. Right. America. On American soil, where he shed his blood. His American blood. His and others. That Captain of the red, white, and blue. He was…named…Steve.

He squinted, a sudden starburst of pain erupting behind his eyelids. Shaking his head, he trudged forward again. Mud squelched at his feet. Twigs and leaves clung to them. Staring at his shoes long enough and he could pick out the grains in the gravel. His eyes swam even more at the exercise. His arms ached. Both of them. He flexed the metal one, wincing at the chair-

He'd sat, thick brick-like lands pushing him back. It wasn't too bad. They could be kind enough. He liked the one from last week; that one even smiled at him before the needles went in. Vision swimming, he dropped to his knees. Hard earth jolted him back. There was no chair. No needles, no straps. Just him and the green trees. He wobbled up, swallowing heavily. Weaving on those shaky legs, his arms limp at his sides. His duffle bag collapsed at his feet and he barely had time to move before throwing up.

"We need to hurry…take the two points here and here. I'll make a path and-"

"I'll cover you of course."

"Of course."

Running and running up the hill, to get him in his sights. That scope of clarity strapped to the barrel. Crosshairs swiveled as he fired round after round into-Germans. They go down so easily. His bullets hit before that shield-

It rams into him, but he catches it and when he throws it back he can see that blond hair shining even through smoke. Car alarms blaring in the distance and the wide eyes of his mission staring back at him in…a smile a mini salute as a solider falls before he can hit his target; heart pounding as he falls back into position. He is recognized…he can-

Gasping with wet on his face. Water-rain splattering his face. He-Bucky-blinks. A canopy of storm-struck trees above him. Their green-ness still bright against storm grey clouds, bark glistening like a fever dream to his eyes. Thunder streaks through the sky, making the sky big, like he was at the bottom of a snow globe. The kind that he bought at Coney Island and gave to Steve that one Christmas when they were 10-

He bolted upright. His eyes blinking; the bark against his back was abrasive. Wind blew his hair every which way. It was time to leave. Standing up was hard but Bucky managed. Legs like rubber and mouth like copper. He swallowed heavily; the taste of bile choking his tongue. His breath was coming out in pants as he picked up his duffle and strode down to the highway.

Wind whipped up the dusty road as mud congealed on the ground. Rain poured down indifferent to him. Thunder cracked so loud it rumbled his stomach, dizzied his ears so he stumbled. A kind of crying as he looked up into the sky; was he crying. It was like he was falling when he looked up. Falling to see snow and hands that reached for him as he tried-terrible pain and dizzy blood-someone was sobbing his name-just sobbing. Wait, there really was sobbing. Lightening lit the up the place like a game at Yankee stadium. Illuminating the fields, the skyline of black, and the spillway. No it was a river, down a ways from a ditch on the left hand side. Water muddy and dark and thick. It splashed up desperate sprays until he could see hands. Striding closer, he saw arms-a whole head. Blond hair plastered to its head.

Dropping his duffle bag, sprinting till he jumped off the slope and dived down. Waves crashed over his head, bubbles took the shape of heads and they formed faces. A man with short round glasses smiling down at him. His lips thin and fish-like as they peeled back in a smile, revealing tiny square teeth. A red bow tie and pressed suit as his pudgy hands reached. Those hands changed shaped, becoming more defined. Those warm hands that never faltered despite their size. His features morphing with wet pops into cheekbones-did they have skin? Too much bubbles-too much haze. Hands reached for him, hit him in the face.

No wait-it was his hands. His hands that latched on. Someone thrashing beside him, head knocking into his collarbone. He wrapped his arms around them tighter. Kicking up, bubbles enveloped them. His lungs seared, squeezing into nothing inside his ribcage. He thrashed, legs seizing in abandon, muscles bursting in protest-panicking more than him. Hands clawed at his face and throat. Light blooming above him-made him think of spilled water across floorboards. Those floors that he hated to scrub. His folks always made him do it-

Someone laughing, laughing as something burst beneath his eyelids, chanting his new name-no his old one. He tossed back his head and-air. His mouth opened, a near scream to suck it all in. A gasp as loud as his at his chest. It rumbled in his chest like life and he sucked in another lungful of air. His hamstrings spasmed again and his head pulled under again as though a giant pushed him back into the bathtub. His arms were empty and he choked, water sliding down his gullet. He thrashed, limbs flailing. He caught a glimpse of silver scales. Lightening flashed again catching those scales again, the red star bursts into flames, burning his eyes. His eyes were open, liquid filling his eyeballs; swimming them in invasive fluid, blurry debris hurtled at his face. He flipped, seeing the scales at a perfect angle. An arm flying at him, all silver power-near striking distance, but it rebounded at his efforts and sung in pain when it tried to flee from him.

His gasped a lungful of water, chest exploding as his ribs flared and it's his arm shivering at him. No-no no no no no no no-it-no his arm lashes out. It strikes flesh not his own and he recalls-he grabs the protesting body-he tries to propel upwards. His spine-eyes rolling like fish lens-like fishes. He can see the spliced up parts of the body-no peripheral vision is frightened. Heart is pounding-can't take much more, veins fit to burst his blood out of himself. His head peaks over the water and he flings the body to the shore. A shriek lets him know the child is alive before a rock trips him back under the surface. His fingers touch the air, but he knows he's floating, can see himself start to still in the water.

This is just fine. Hair tangles like reeds. It was never this long before, it seemed too uncouth to do it-made you look like a bum. Were those shadows under his eyes, open for all the world to see? No wait, he should-fingers twitching like they were ready to pull the trigger at the screams coming from wherever he was not. He slammed back into himself, arms screaming as they came back to life. Hands hit something solid. Branches. He pulled himself up hard. He hacked as his head hit the sky. Sprays of water-spit as he tried to breathe. Arms shaking as thunder echoed, surrounding him in his snow globe. The soggy grass and mud was not too far from him, just on his left-

He leapt, hitting the sorry excuse for a bank. He landed on his stomach. His chest cracked and water exploded out of his nose and mouth. He retched, body heaving as it tried to breathe and vomit at the same time. Drawn out wet hacks as he finally collapsed. Mud hitting his eyes and leaves clinging to his cheeks. Shouts next to his ears and a slight tugging at his arms. He looks up and sees the child trying to pull him closer to the bank.

Their eyes meet-big and blue. So innocent. They had always been like that, so heartfelt and open. So open to him-to everyone and he had seen them just once more again. Filled with tears-but he hadn't-yes. Yes yes no no no no no please no no no-yes yes yes-

Bucky pushed himself up.

He left the child at a gas station, wet and tiny in his jacket-so tiny barely ninety pounds when wet, just like him-big eyes wide. The sky was still grey, but it was early. The sun was gonna be up soon. The child waved, which he barely returned. Stumbling down a dusty back road, the sun finally peeked out of the clouds until it dominated the sky. It beat down on him, but everything else was so green. It was amazing. So bright it hurt his eyes. The world was too bright and he couldn't think of a time when he could tolerate it.

Sweat came down on his back, salty on his lips. It dribbled into the creases of his arm and stung like wasps as it creaked. It made the pulse in his throat jump and he tossed his head like a horse trying to swat a fly. He treks down through a field of sunflowers that were cut through by a set of train tracks when the sun was too high in the sky and he slept in the shade. All that yellow was tiring but somehow pleasant. He woke up to see a fox in the distance, its red fur a nice blaze against the rest of the color. Bucky resisted the urge to chase after it. He left when the sun hung low in the sky.

Shaking himself, he growled and pressed on, following the train tracks. For how long he didn't know. He stopped to rest only once, when the moon was high in the sky at what looked to be an abandoned factory. Construction vehicles still standing un-manned, like the rigging to some great ghost ship long forgotten. No one had been here in years. He was curious enough to explore. He didn't know what they made; all the signs were too badly burned to be read, the scent of deteriorated metal still held a subtle tang in the air. Some parts of the building were literally hanging on their hinges. His boots crunched over gravel. He walked past shaky boards to a chain link fence and a metal walkway. It led him to a playground. It had been just as forgotten as the factory. The plastic had aging streaking and the wooden gazebo creaked with rot. He quickly left. He spent the night hidden under a metal sheet. The factory groaned in a manic cry at his presence. The sun was barely up when he left.

There was a tiny town nestled by some mountains. He hadn't bothered to look at any of the road signs. It made his eyes swim and something inside of him gave a twist to his insides. He had to brace himself for impact as he lean forward, hands on his knees as he tried to keep upright. A car pulled up to him.

"Hey man, you alright?"

He grunted, nodded and ignored the man.

"Cuz if you want, I can give you a ride. It's no trouble."

He looked back up at the man. He was old. Weathered skin, crinkled at the eyes. Dark brown irises and thick knarled hands. A slight frown on his face, lips polite but firm. He nodded once. It took him a while to strap in a seatbelt, hands shaking and he couldn't figure out why. They stopped at a gas station and he slumped over, flinching when he was offered coffee. Then the old man took a new lane and pulled into an antiques' shop parking lot. He started, but the old man smiled.

"It's ok I own the place. You look like you're about to keel over."

He nodded; he could feel his insides protest; wires too taunt but ready to slacken at any moment. His head reeled when he stopped nodding. He fumbled out of the truck. The old man watched him carefully, with open arms and braced legs. He didn't need it, giving the old man a wide berth.

He was ushered through and up the stairs. Old wooden beams, polished. A vague thought that seemed to come from somewhere far away informed him that it was mahogany and it was well taken care of. The old man led him to a room in the back, past high shelves of books, muskets, and trinkets, and a long hallway. The ivory white walls hurt his eyes and something in his chest. The door was pushed open to reveal a single bed on the left with a desk on the right and a window in between them. Sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains that made him think of summertime and lemonade.

"Just take your time. I'll be downstairs if you need anything."

He nodded and was given a smile in return. It was just a quick one. Staring at the curtain was a bad idea, even if it looked pleasant. No lemonade and sunshine for him. The bed was soft and he tested its weight by pressing the palms of his hands on it. His arms shook as they tried to brace for the rest of his body and he gingerly pushed himself onto the bed. He sat, tucking his knees to his chin. His eyelashes fluttered shut.

Fireworks flashed beneath his eyes and he scowled. He tried to see past it-what was making that flash? A rush of wind as a discus whirled past him and he shuddered at the power of it. A face turned to smile at him-fierce pain made him bang his head back into the wall. He jumped-where was he? Right, lemonade and sunshine.

When he went downstairs, the old man was waiting for him. The place was roomy and the oldness was odd to him. Somehow both nice and painful, but in such a vague way that he just shrugged at the sight of books.

"I wasn't sure what you would have liked, but-" he gestured to a thick sandwich on a plate. "This was all I could think of."

He stared at it and after the old man gave him a nod, he grabbed it and ate quickly. He finished off an apple and gulped down the pitcher of water. As he was eating the old man began to speak.

"I've had this place for nearly fifty years, passed down from my father and from his father…"

The drone was pleasant and it took him a while to realize that he was being led throughout the rooms. Jewelry winked up at him as did colonial helmets. Tapestries and bed sheets smelled the same to him and he walked past huge tumbling tomes and the smaller yellowed books and newspapers. Even comic books with their bold coloring and thick lines-how did he know that? He knew that the shading was awful on the covers, that they didn't match with the rest of it-why couldn't-

He moved past it, only catching the title out of the corner of his eye and he his legs trembled. Said legs took him to a room filled with display cases of guns.

"Ah, you've got a good eye there-"

His eyes wandered over to an old luger as if hypnotized. He leaned in as close as the glass case would allow. He could almost smell the glass. A pair of hands came at his face and he flinched back, only to see the old man lift the glass case and take the luger out.

"Go on, you can touch it."

He did. His fingers jumped at the age of it. The metal chilled to his fingertips, making his fingers shiver at their power. He was vaguely aware of the man speaking, recalling the history of the gun. All he needed to know was that it had taken life. He was barely touching it and he knew that it had seen death. Feeling steadier with that connection he gripped the handle and pulled it up. He stared at it. The Germans loved these things. Loved them and they couldn't even hit the side of a barn. He showed it to Steve just to prove it-

The gun flickered and suddenly spasmed, as if it was tickled. Light flashed from its muzzle. Uniforms flashed between him, a blitz of blue was a head of him as always and it filled him with horror when others got too close. He was firing wildly, trying to get a shot off. Fire was coming out of it. Fire all around him, trying to eat them and then it taunted them. Races spit out of that terrible mouth, all red from hate. A terrible leer from some place-hidden-it was red-and he-burnt flesh right-it was burnt? Teeth were too bright too feral against the blood-no the face, not the blood the face, and it-oh oh who had that-was it in all of us? No no no no no and the man with the glasses was there. Face pudgy and terrified. No face-nothing but flesh-no no flesh how could that be-such a bright color-

The gun had fallen from his hands with a clatter, like a bang-an explosion. He gasped, now aware that his chest was heaving uncontrollably. He shuddered at the unwelcome touch of the old hand on his back-hands that he should have. He looked down at his own. Smooth and grubby, but if he looked, he could see the pink beneath the grime. He full body flinched from the hands-the old man's, his own. His throat clenched around names-couldn't get them out-it was bile instead, but it was ringing loud and frantic in his head.

He bolted, door crashing past his hands. His mind blurred as he hotwired the truck in the parking lot, staring at nothing as he reversed out of the lot and spun down the road. He did it all without looking back.

He drove down the highway, music blaring. He used the radio to search for something familiar. Decades flipping by in a genre. God, he couldn't stand county, Jazz made him so homesick he couldn't stand to hear another note. The heady thrumming drums of rock music suit his mood just fine. His breath was still coming along in pants because when he couldn't sing along to the song he screamed. Lyrics weren't worth listening too-it was all the same. Longing and hate and hurt-it hurt it hurt it hurt it hurt-

He blared it all the same. Drove on for days, suns and moons bleeding together until he could no longer distinguish the horizon. His lips shook, animal growling coming out of them like the crack in the door. Too much too much, cannot do that-cannot let that out. The steering wheel cracked underneath his hands-his hands that could kill-that killed-no no no no no no blo-

The car shuddered, tires blowing out and he swerved out of the way of a semi and slammed into a tree. He was flung forward, slamming into the windshield and hitting the hood, its shiny surface crackling beneath him. He lay there for hours, the hiss the engine shutting up his brain. Time moved slower-slower than usual he supposed. It was only after that did he suspect his limbs of moving for him, letting him clamber to the ground. He wasn't even aware of the direction he was in. He found a dilapidated barn, ducking into the leaning doorway, and pushed himself into the corner. He slammed his head repeatedly against the slashed wallpaper, tiny splashes of blood hitting the walls.

Another forest, another fog. His head swam. No no no no no no-he had to find that hill-the scope, he couldn't find his scope-gravel and rocks crunching-oh god the crunching. Soldiers crunched under the treads of tanks-they screamed like F-22's and-bright red blood, everybody wore those bright masks, so-

A figure echoing around him. He froze, shaking. Breathing through his nose, the world tunneling-not much to see so grey-not much to see-someone. They move forward, feet crunching to him, ready to tread him underfoot. He can see it now, the fang-like traction treads of his shoes. He shudders, feels it in his spine because he can't breathe. Oh god please-no no no no no he can't-

"Bucky?"

He must make some kind of noise. He can't tell; all the sound is gone, he can no longer hear. It's him, his-mission-stranger-friend-capitan-enemy-friend-mission-stranger-friend-captian-enemy-friend-mission-stranger-friend-captian-enemy-friend-mission-no no no no Steve-Steve-Steve -Steve-Steve Steve-St-

His eyes roll back in his head-

"Bucky?"

Like magic, there he was, come rolling out of the fog. Standing there. It wasn't until he got close enough to touch that he realized something was wrong. Then he fell like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

"Bucky!"

He managed to catch him before he fell to the ground. The man was completely limp in his arms, sagging and Steve had to brace himself from going down completely from Bucky's weight. He lifted him up in a fireman's carry and walked back to camp.

Sam was already awake and tending to the fire when he got back. He jumped up in surprise when he saw who Steve was carrying. Eyebrows raised to his short hairline.

"Holy-"

"Help me with him. He's dead weight."

Sam was at his side in a heartbeat. He didn't nearly get himself enough credit when it came to speed. He went to the right side of Steve and together they eased Bucky to the ground, propping him up against a tree. Sam stepped back, wary and worried at once. Steve pushed away the twinge of annoyance; Sam had a right to be wary, after all, Bucky was…is the winter soldier. That didn't help. Steve swallowed. His gut feeling wasn't a good one. He checked Bucky's pulse; it was racing. Out of years of habit, his hand went to Bucky's forehead. He frowned.

"He's burning up."

"What?" Sam's eyebrows knitted in confusion. "I thought having the serum meant that that was impossible."

Steve shrugged. "There's an exception to every rule. He needs a hospital."

"…I don't think that's possible. You-"

"Yeah I'm aware." He snapped. At seeing Sam's expression, he continued. "I'm sorry. You are right about that. I just-he's-"

Sam put a hand on Steve's shoulder. "I know."

Steve stood up and went to grab a spare blanket and pillow from within his tent. He strode back to Bucky and adjusted him so than he was covered and propped up. He sighed.

"It's just…I hate seeing him like this. He's always looked out for me. Tried to protect me. I just want to return the favor."

"Yeah I get the feeling, definitely."

When Bucky woke up, the first thing Steve wanted to do was get to him as quickly as possible. Which was not something he was able to do, because as soon as he got close, Bucky blanched, pressing his back into the bark as humanly possible. His eyes had that wide feral look when he fought Steve for the first time. Bucky shook, lips pulled back and eyes darting. Probably looking for a weapon, but that was the first thing Sam made sure to keep from him as far as possible. This was different. He flinched at Steve's approach.

It brought him up short and he felt the color drain from his face. Something inside of him was twisting around, making it hard to breathe. He blinked; he didn't understand this…he brought up his hands as slow as he could.

"Ok…it's ok. We-I won't hurt you. I promise. I'll never hurt you. So…please." He cleared his throat. "It's ok…you're not…you're not well. I want to help you, but I can't do that unless you help me. Please." He swallowed hard. "Please Bucky."

He slowly brought his hands closer, Bucky tried to press farther back, but he smacked the back of his head into the tree. He inhaled sharply, eyes still tracing Steve's hands, his chest heaving. Steve lowered his hands. It took him much longer than he would have liked to speak. Something was crawling in his esophagus, lodged in there and unwilling to leave. He blinked rapidly and shook his head as if to clear a ringing from his ears. Bucky slumped against the tree, spent. Steve exhaled then slowly stood up. He ignored the look of concern Sam gave him and went back inside his tent.

The next time Bucky woke up, he seemed calmer but still feverish. He had a definite flush over his skin. It was the only color to his skin and it made Steve shudder. Bucky had looked even more bedraggled than Steve had last seen him. His clothes were stiff with blood, mud, and…water? His eyes had a glassy sheen to them. Steve made sure to walk in full view before coming over to him.

He set down what he was carrying. He pointed to each item. Bandages, antibiotics, painkillers, needle and thread, towels, and an icepack. Steve held up a hand, keeping it level to Bucky's face before putting it on Bucky's shoulder. The other man shivered, but he wasn't focusing on Steve. In fact he was shivering hard enough to make his teeth chatter. Steve brought the blanket closer to him.

He cleaned and dressed any visible wounds. Steve winced at the bump on Bucky's head. It was at least a week old. He fixed a cold compress and tried to keep Bucky as cool as he possibly could. Bucky's face was pinched tight, breath still coming out in shallow pants, voice windy in his sleep.

"No no no no no no no-"

He struggled as if come to life and Steve shouted for Sam. Bucky struggled against them, knocking them back and staggering away from them. He leaned against a tree and threw up. Steve winced in sympathy and went over to Bucky. Sam followed with his eyes, shifting his weight. Bucky was speaking low and rapid.

"No no no no no no-"

"Bucky-"

Bucky stood up, lurching forward and surprisingly fast. Steve not far behind. Sam unwound himself from his perch.

"Man." He huffed.

Bucky was following a stream, striding now and Steve fought back a pang of nostalgia; Bucky always had a long stride that he had to catch up to. That he always wanted to-Bucky was sliding into the stream.

"Hey. No." Steve grabbed his shoulders. "Stop stop, I've got you." He tried to pull Bucky closer.

Bucky shook his head. "No."

"Tell me what's wrong. I-"

"No! No, it's all wrong. I-I-I'm not supposed to-how I c-c-can't be here and fighting-you-how is this? I-I killed those-people-and I-I know-know-no no no I don't understand-why-why?!"

He screamed. A long wordless cry. He hunched over and Steve pulled him to him. Bucky didn't resist. Steve gritted his teeth as his vision blurred, heart pounding as Bucky's cries grew deeper, from some primal place as his hands shot out and kept Steve in an iron grip. The man was shaking so bad, his entire body heaved.

Steve kept his own grip around Bucky until the man exhausted himself, grip still strong and his head rested on Steve's shoulder, matted hair tickling Steve's neck. He really needed it cut.

"Steve."

"Steve"

He stared straight at him, his gaze clear and piercing. Steve started. His mouth hung open for a moment; he knew he was staring, but here was Bucky. Bucky recognizing him and here-whole and-

"You're ok." He trembled a little. "You're really here."

Bucky gave him a rueful smile. "Yeah. Yeah I guess I am."

The expression was so familiar…so Bucky that Steve had to blink back the past. He didn't trust himself to speak. When it finally could he wasn't at all surprised by its wobbliness.

"Well, I gotta say, damn good to see you."

When Bucky spoke he was glad he wasn't the only one.

"Yeah well…what can I say? The end of the line right?"

End.


End file.
